


Quo Fata Ferunt

by herewestandinfireandblood (fairytale_bliss)



Series: Amor Vincit Omnia [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Jorah Mormont Lives, Mild Sexual Content, S8 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25713718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytale_bliss/pseuds/herewestandinfireandblood
Summary: [Showverse] And today is one of the most anticipated events of the calendar. The grand tourney. A tourney to end all tourneys, Tyrion Lannister has spouted several times.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont & Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Amor Vincit Omnia [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541743
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	Quo Fata Ferunt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salzrand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salzrand/gifts).



> Small thank you gift for salzrand for the best Jorleesi bookmark in the world! <3 <3 <3 <3

The past weeks have been a whirlwind of activity. There’s barely been any time for a brief few moments of respite. So many policies, so many meetings, so many public gatherings. There are still a thousand more things to do.

But they are all being put on hold for one week.

One glorious week to celebrate the end of a war that has torn the country open and bled it dry for years.

One glorious week to celebrate the saviour and the new Queen of the Six kingdoms, Daenerys Stormborn.

Which means feasts and music and dancing.

And tourneys.

The tourneys are the most important part. Of the seven members of the queensguard required, Daenerys only has two, Grey Worm and himself. She plans to use the tourneys to scout out eager candidates, using the expertise of her best fighters to narrow the pool. It’s a genius idea.

Daenerys is full of them. It’s part of the reason why her ascension to the throne has been as simple as it has. Not all of the great houses are happy, of course, but the common people love her already.

And those great houses love invitations to the capital and being treated like royalty.

The festivities have been underway for several days, and Daenerys has hosted a different house in her halls every single night, currying favour.

And today is one of the most anticipated events of the calendar. The grand tourney. A tourney to end all tourneys, Tyrion Lannister has spouted several times. Tall words for someone so small.

Jorah stands in his quarters, readying himself for the big event.

He’d never thought to find himself competing in another tourney. The enjoyment has rather soured, with the disastrous aftermath of his marriage to Lynesse.

Sadness takes root deep in his heart too, a sadness that grows like a vicious weed, a sadness that he’s never been able to tear out at the root for it grows intimately around the tendrils of his heart.

It had been the beginning of the end. He’d failed his father, who had entrusted his dear Bear Island to him, believing he would make a fine lord. He had failed his people, who he had betrayed by selling poachers into slavery and damaging the proud name. He’s failed his wife, because he should have known that a Hightower used to having the world would never be content on a frozen island on the edge of civilisation.

No, he’d never wanted to fight another tourney and be reminded of the past.

But Daenerys has asked him, and he can’t refuse her anything, even if it might hurt him to carry it out.

And he _can_ wear his new armour with pride.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Ser Jorah? Are you ready?”

Daenerys herself.

He moves over to the door and pulls it open. There his queen stands, Missandei just behind, looking breathtakingly beautiful in her regal best. The most beautiful woman who will ever be found the world over. Her hair is braided with intricate precision, and her dress is the blood red of her house, a ruby so bright, and intersected with black whorls. It hugs in all of the right places, practical yet impressive. And there sits the crown on her head, the golden colour of the beautiful Sunfyre, three dragons twined like serpents making up the grand design. Six jewels act as eyes; aventurine for Rhaegal, white agate for Viserion, black tourmaline for Drogon.

“Jorah?”

He shakes himself out of his stupor. “What are you doing here?”

She rolls her eyes. “I want you to escort me down to the tourney. I know I don’t officially have a queensguard yet but since you are its lord commander I think it’s only proper that you ensure I get there safely.”

He spies Missandei turning away to hide her smile. He wonders why she’s smiling. He doesn’t find anything remotely funny about it.

“If you wish it, Khaleesi,” he says.

“I do. Let’s go.”

She turns on her heel and moves down the corridor. He pulls the heavy wooden door closed behind him and follows.

It’s easy to fall into step with her. He’s been doing it for so many years that he doesn’t even need to think about it. It’s natural instinct to shadow her steps, shortening his stride just slightly to compensate for her much shorter legs. Out of habit he rests his hand on Heartsbane’s hilt, ready to draw at a single moment.

Missandei and Daenerys pay little mind, chattering as they make their way through the Red Keep. Jorah is content to listen. It’s been a long, long time since these halls last knew such peace.

King’s Landing has swollen so much that it’s almost bursting at its bloated seams. Thousands from all over Westeros have come to glimpse at these festivities. Some have even come to try for glory. Daenerys does not discriminate; high born or low, man or woman, she’d proclaimed, if they wanted the honour of serving her they could prove their worth.

On their way to the tourney the crowds gather to hail her. Choruses of her name, clamouring to touch her clothes. Daenerys laughs and indulges them, passing her hand over a little boy’s head, waving at a group of small girls who stand shyly to the side.

The people of Westeros might not have sipped secret toasts to her health, but they shout it now for the gods to hear.

Once they arrive at the tourney site, Missandei excuses herself to find Grey Worm.

“Let’s get you to your seat,” Jorah says, but Daenerys waves it off.

“In a minute,” she says, then calls out to a nearby Unsullied, Black Flea, in Valyrian. He comes over at once, standing by with patient watchfulness for his queen’s wish. She turns back to Jorah. “First I would like for us to go somewhere a little more private.”

“What?” he says, his mouth drying at once. He shouldn’t do this to her, or to himself, but since the Long Night she’s been more affectionate with him, little touches, soft smiles, those flirty little quirks, like they would in Astapor, Yunkai, Mereen…

Daenerys rolls her eyes. “Black Flea will be with us, don’t worry. Your honour will remain intact.”

“My honour was decimated years ago, Khaleesi. It’s yours I’m concerned about.”

“There’s nothing to fear there.”

“Whispers are poison. They will pick up on the slightest misstep, no matter how innocent. The rumours of incest between Cersei and Jaime Lannister brought about war.”

“Those rumours were the truth.”

“And what if someone tries to make war with you because they suspected you of deceitfulness?”

“I’d call them ridiculous. Now stop wasting time. The tourney will begin any moment.”

What choice does he have? Daenerys gestures for him to follow and so he does. She slips inside the tent that has been reserved for his use. He ducks in after her. Black Flea doesn’t follow.

Now they’re completely alone, away from curious eyes, Daenerys seems more at ease. Jorah watches her carefully, maintaining a respectable distance.

He can’t put his finger on it, but something has _shifted_. He would be tempted to say that she is like before she discovered his betrayal, but even that isn’t right; she’s _changed_. Not in a bad way. Gods, never in a bad way, for Daenerys could never be such. But it is confusing for his old heart.

That’s the crux of it, he supposes. His treacherous heart will always long for her even though he knows it’s futile and unfair on her. Whenever she throws him a scrap of affection he gluttons on it like a starving dog, and there’s so much to feast on these days.

It was easier when Jon Snow—Jon _Targaryen_ —was on the scene. For how could he have competed there?

But since their parting of the ways…

“Jorah, you’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”

He snaps back to himself at her exasperated tone. “Of course I am.”

“What did I just say, then?”

“Um—”

She rolls her eyes. “Never mind. Just come closer. I have something for you.”

“Your Grace?” he says, surprised. Why would she have something for him? It doesn’t make any sense. Nevertheless he moves closer, until he’s just shy of being in her personal space. At one time he would not have hesitated to lean in close, but the harsh words she spoke to him still ring like war bells in his ears, a fearsome reminder that they will never be that close again.

_Don’t ever presume to touch me or speak my name…_

Daenerys closes the gap herself, moving so close that he can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. This close to him she has to crane her neck upwards so she can look at his face. Jorah finds himself irresistibly drawn to looking down at her, too. Everything she does is so irresistible. She sinks her teeth into her lower lip as if she’s contemplating her options, and it takes all of his self-restraint not to lean down in a burst of reckless longing to taste those lips for himself…

He shakes himself, angry. He needs to stop.

Will he ever be able to? To cast out that affliction in him that makes him want her with every breath he takes even though he knows she doesn’t want the same?

He wishes he could.

“Jorah?”

This time, there’s a grain of concern in her voice. He forces himself to smile, a tight thing that doesn’t feel right.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’m just thinking about what’s ahead.”

“I’m sure you’ll do admirably.”

“I’m not. And I don’t want to tarnish your reputation by looking like a doddering old fool at the head of your queensguard.”

“You’re not old.”

He snorts. “Now you’re teasing me.”

“Well, you’re a little older than I am but that doesn’t matter to most women. I’m sure you’ll gain plenty of new admirers today. They’ll clamour over themselves to marry you.”

Now she _is_ mocking him, he’s sure of that, but holds his tongue. “Queensguard can’t marry. Or take lovers.”

Daenerys hums noncommittally. “The tourney is what I wanted to speak to you about, actually.”

“Oh?”

She steps even closer, until there’s barely a hair’s breadth of space between them, and he smells the scent that is just _her_ : smoke and sun and salt, so potently intoxicating that he feels like he’s just downed a horn of mare’s milk in one go. How easy it would be _now_ to slip his arms around her and kiss her senseless…

“I know little about these Westerosi customs beyond what Viserys told me and what I’ve read,” she says. “And I suppose as a queen I should remain impartial for the sake of the realm, and particularly since my queensguard will be chosen from this. But I know ladies can bestow favours on someone taking part in such an event, so…”

Jorah swallows hard, the back of his neck prickling as Daenerys wriggles one of her many rings free from her finger.

“As my most trusted advisor and most loyal follower I, Daenerys of House Targaryen and Queen of Westeros, hereby give you my favour to wear.”

She holds out her hand. The ring, a thick, heavy silver thing gilded with intricate dragon heads, looks so small in her palm.

His throat is too tight. “Khaleesi…you shouldn’t.”

She gives him a conspiratorial smirk. “I know I shouldn’t, but I want to. Most other favours will be gaudier and I know this one can’t be, but I want you to take it.”

The last time he wore a woman’s favour he won Lynesse’s heart, for a brief moment in time.

Daenerys wants him to wear her favour. And he knows that it’s just the gesture of a queen to her knight, but his heart feels it anyway, right there in its centre, past the muscle and tissue that’s supposed to guard its tender centre.

Trembling, he reaches out to take the ring from her. His fingertips brush her calloused palm, and he has the urge to linger, to trace every line and commit it all to memory.

He withdraws.

“It’s too small,” he says, praying that his voice remains steady.

“I thought it would be.” She’s a little breathy, how he imagines she might have been when she was with Daario or Jon. “So I’ve come up with a solution. Here.”

From the depths of her pockets she pulls out a thin strap of leather. Feeding the ring on to its length, she holds the two ends out to him.

He gets the idea at once, taking it in trembling fingers and raising it so he can tie it securely around his neck. Once in place, he tucks it carefully down the front of his tunic, hiding its true contents from all prying eyes. It drops to nestle against his breastbone, next to his heart. Where she will always be.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he whispers.

“My pleasure, Ser Jorah,” she says, stepping back. “Now go out there and show everyone why you’re Lord Commander of the Queensguard.”

“I will do my best to be worthy of you,” he says.

“You already are,” she responds and, before he can even register it, stands on her tiptoes to press a fleeting kiss against his cheek. She’s gone in the next moment before he can even begin to process any of it, gone so quickly that he questions if it even happened at all.

The hot tingling of his skin where her mouth touched lets him know that it did.

Kissed by fire.

\-- --

For all of his patience, waiting to do battle has never been one of his strengths. He’s not one for nerves, but performing in front of thousands, with the weight of their expectations on him…

It’s a pressure he’s not accustomed to.

The archery takes up the morning, with a young farmer’s son winning the list above the lords and squires. The crowd of smallfolk is whipped up into a frenzy, especially when Daenerys asks Larys of the Fields to join her ranks as a member of her queensguard if he should so desire it.

He does, grinning so hard it looks as if it might hurt.

He got so good at shooting because finding food was the only way he survived for a long time after their farm was put to the torch in the War of the Five Kings, Jorah learns later.

And so the queensguard grows to three. By the end of the week, their ancient order should be complete.

He’s enlisted for the melee, which is due to be the final spectacle of the celebration. He could have jousted too, he supposes, but that would bring back too many memories of how he won Lynesse’s hand, and he doesn’t want that. He stands on the sidelines and watches instead.

Unsurprisingly, that victory goes to one of Daenerys’ remaining Dothraki riders. Hezho is young and strong and has been learning how to fight from horseback since his third nameday. He sweeps away the competition and Daenerys proclaims him blood of her blood, and the fourth member of her queensguard.

And then it’s time for the melee.

Jorah walks into the huge area with the rest of the competitors. The crowd cheers in a frenzy, the cacophony almost enough to rupture his eardrums. His fist tightens around Heartsbane’s hilt as he stands before his queen. Blunted weapons are handed out, for Daenerys doesn’t want injuries more innocuous than grazes and bruises.

When she stands and claps, the game begins.

The rest of the world fades out then. There’s no room for distraction. In a real battle one single misstep can result in death, and he’s not fool enough to let his guard down here.

And he has more experience than most. The fighting pits of Mereen. Beyond the Wall on that doomed exhibition. The Long Night. The Last War. He knows what it’s like to take on a thousand rabid enemies at once. He’s got the advantage there.

Swinging, slashing. Breath ripped from his lungs in harsh pants. Ducking, parrying. He can’t tell who he is aiming at, just fights as if his very life depends on it. He swings his sword at a young lad’s head and he goes down with a yell. Takes another’s legs out from under him. Shoulders one like a bull then slams the flat of his sword into his chest, leaving him wheezing.

It’s chaos and carnage. He has no idea who still stands and who doesn’t. All he knows is that he has to keep fighting. For Daenerys. For her honour. To prove that he is worthy to head her queensguard.

He doesn’t know how long it goes on for. Minutes, hours. All he knows is that the numbers dwindle and he’s still there. Screams and cheers ring in his ears with every song of the sword. He begins to recognise the ones who remain as the crowd thins out. Arya Stark. Jon Snow. Brienne of Tarth. An assortment of others looking for glory. Jorah grips his sword tighter. The odds are against him. All are fine fighters. Better than him. But he will not let his queen down, not when she has such faith in him.

He eyes his next target, a lanky hedge knight. The young man bares his teeth at him, evidently thinking his youth will win out.

Jorah charges.

More ducking and weaving. The lad throws a blow at his chest but it bounces off his plate. Jorah retaliates with a sideways sweep that takes him out.

Another one down.

Jon dispatches two more.

Arya and Brienne have started a fierce duel, both of them grinning hard at the competition from the other. They’re intent only on each other. That’s good. It means they’re not interested in him.

Two more go down without much fight.

And there he is, left opposite Jon. The younger man grimaces, but tightens his hold on his sword.

“No hard feelings, Ser Jorah,” he says.

“No hard feelings,” he echoes.

Jon thinks he will win. He’s won everything else, hasn’t he? His father’s affection, Longclaw, even Daenerys for a time.

The wolf beats the bear every time.

Jorah clenches his teeth.

Jon raises his sword and he mirrors him.

The dance begins.

Jon is good, there’s no denying that. He’s young, fit, born to the sword. Jorah barely manages to parry his first blow, misses entirely with his retaliation. Jon comes for him again and he leaps out of the way, stumbling slightly over his feet. He parries another shot aimed at his head. The force of it sends him clattering to the floor. Momentarily winded, he has no time to rest as Jon comes for him again. Parrying another blow meant for his head he kicks out with his feet, catching Jon cleanly on the shin and sweeping his feet out from under him. Jon falls with a yelp. A dirty trick? Perhaps. But Jorah has seen most things in his lifetime, and fighting pretty doesn’t always make for the best outcome.

Quick as a flash he pounces, pressing his body weight into Jon’s shins. He dodges past a desperate flailing lunge and rams the blunt edge of the sword into his neck.

“Yield!” Jon chokes. “I yield!” Though he’s wheezing, there’s no mistaking the surliness in his tone. Jorah feels a petty stab of satisfaction at that.

But there’s no time to bask in it.

He rolls to the side in time to miss the sword that Brienne of Tarth was about to crack against the back of his skull.

The sword, brought down with such force, wedges itself in the soft ground.

Now’s the time to strike.

For the brief moment that Brienne blinks in dumbfounded disbelief, Jorah leaps back to his feet and slashes at her. Defenceless, she instinctively raises her arm to block the blow, yelling as it bites into soft flesh. Jorah wastes no time in striking again, this time aiming for the vulnerable spot near her armpit. Brienne cries out again, scrabbling uselessly for her sword. Jorah kicks it away, pointing his own inches from her face.

The way forward is clear. With a resigned scowl, Brienne nods. “I yield.”

Jorah moves the sword away, glancing around as the crowd’s cheering reaches a crescendo. No one else still stands.

By some miracle he’s emerged victorious.

A little dazed, he soaks in the applause. Centre stage, right in front of his eyeline, is Daenerys; she’s on her feet clapping harder than anyone, a broad grin splitting her face.

He’s the champion.

Around him the other competitors join in the clapping; one of them, a squire he doesn’t know thrusts the champion’s prize into his hands.

His mouth goes dry.

He’d forgotten all about this.

In Lannisport he’d named Lynesse his queen of love and beauty, marking the beginning of his downfall.

What does he do now?

He wants to refuse it. After all, he has no wife now, nor is he interested in placing it upon the head of any of the giggling ladies in their finery.

But to refuse…

He doesn’t care what people might think of him, not really. His reputation was tarnished a long time ago and it will be difficult to get that back, despite what’s happened over the last year. But Daenerys’ is of the utmost import.

And there’s only one woman he wishes to give the crown to. And that’s Daenerys herself.

But what will people think of _that?_ The poor knight naming his queen? It could spark rumours to cause another war. Whispers and sniggers and hatchling plans. He knows Daenerys doesn’t feel that way for him, but others will choose to see what they want.

And yet…

And yet is it so bad? Haven’t countless kingsguard throughout the years given the crown to queens or princesses as a sign of devotion? Wouldn’t that be acceptable?

And his own feelings are clear anyway. Tyrion knows. Varys knows. Missandei knows. Grey Worm knows. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of Westeros does if it doesn’t already, for it wouldn’t surprise him if the little lion hasn’t already run his mouth off to half the whores in the capital.

“Go on, then,” the lad says gruffly. “What are you waiting for?”

Jorah takes a deep breath before stepping forward. His heart thuds in his ears, drowning out all other sounds.

Head or heart?

His heart always wins.

He’s hyper aware of the weight of a thousand gazes upon him as he trudges out of the arena to the raised stands where his queen is. The flower crown is far too delicate in his clumsy hands, and he’s afraid that he’ll break its pretty chain before he reaches her.

The murmurs begin then, excited and impetuous. Jorah keeps his eyes on her. In those long seconds Daenerys’ expression flickers from confusion to realisation, settling on understanding.

…A smile?

Well, that’s a good thing, he supposes.

_Love, love, how can you say that to me?_

The words still haunt him. They’ve moved past it, but he wonders if deep down that niggling disbelief and disgust remains. If inside now she can think of nothing worse than being presented with this crown, forced into playing the role of the gracious ruler.

He notices Tyrion by her right hand side, his expression caught somewhere between resignation, amusement, and exasperation. He’s no longer clapping.

_This is a bad fucking idea, Mormont._

He hears the dwarf’s words plain as day, as if he’s just shouted them for the world to hear. Tyrion seems to like him and he’s grown to tolerate him in turn, but he supposes there will always be this undercurrent of rivalry between them.

_He cannot be by your side._

He’d admitted that Daenerys needed him but there had been a clear warning too, as they’d drank together on the eve of his departure to Eastwatch.

_To the dragon and the wolf. May they sing their song for centuries to come._

The implication was clear. Don’t prove to be a distraction. Allow ice and fire to meet and mate and bring Westeros together.

But Jon Snow is Jon Targaryen and that little plan is out of the window.

He knows that Tyrion is silently warning him again.

Jorah ignores it.

Ignores everyone but his queen as he kneels down in front of her and offers her the crown.

The crowd screams and claps as Daenerys raises her arms to remove that intricate crown of gold from her head. She passes it over to Missandei and reaches for his flower offering instead, replacing it upon her head. The flowers look beautiful against her silver hair. She is a goddess, the Mother above. The saviour of Westeros. She will build it back up from the ruins of destruction and make it a safe place for everyone once more, of that he has no doubt.

She will forever be his queen of love and beauty, his everything.

\-- --

On this morning Jorah wakes early, to the sounds of creaking ships and shrieking birds. Slipping out of bed, he pads over to the window to peer out at the world coming to life beneath him. Here in Gulltown, it’s unusual for him to hear such soothing noises. The Red Keep stands far away from the Blackwater, and so even though they have a beautiful coast, he rarely gets to see much of it.

He’s awake for more than one reason. Strangely enough, he’s _nervous_. Today is the day the city celebrates Daenerys’ presence with a tourney in her honour, and the common people will clamour in their thousands to catch a glimpse of her.

And he will be a major attraction in said tourney, the queen’s husband.

He doesn’t fight in tourneys often these days. Tyrion will say it’s because he’s too old to keep up, but in truth those days are behind him. He fights when he has to. He sees no point in showing off. And it’s true: he _is_ getting a bit old for tourneys. They’re for young men. He can still hold his own, but winning? That’s a thing of the past.

Of course, he is unable to deny his girl anything. Whatever she asks of him, no matter how impossible, he will find a way to do it.

And so here he is, on the morn of a new tourney.

Rustling sheets break him out of his reverie. He turns to find Daenerys sitting up, tousle-haired and bleary-eyed.

“What are you doing over there?” she complains. “I expect you to be beside me when I wake.”

Jorah can’t help his small smile. That’s his wife, demanding as ever. Especially in pregnancy.

 _Pregnant_. It’s still more than he can comprehend. But he is so happy that his heart could burst, and Daenerys is just as happy. He’d never wanted or expected children before, and he had reassured Daenerys of that a thousand times.

But now?

Well, he can’t deny that he loves them.

“Come back to bed,” she says.

“I should start getting ready.”

“We’ve hours before the tourney.”

“But not before breakfast.” He shoots her a knowing look. “Do we want a repeat of what happened at the Eyrie?”

Daenerys grins, stretching out. She’s deliberately pushed the covers away and he swallows hard, unable to resist running his eyes further down her body. The swelling of her belly has just become noticeable to others, and they made the announcement to jubilant cheers on their tour.

“There was no harm dome at the Eyrie,” she says.

“We missed our farewell breakfast.”

“They think I had sickness and you were being a dutiful husband.”

Jorah snorts. “Not one person in the Eyrie believed that.” Nor had it been true; they’d missed breakfast because Daenerys had been feeling particularly amorous, and how could he ever resist her when she looked like _that_?

“Fine,” she says now, brushing her hand over the underside of her breast. They’ve just begun to round out with the changes in her body, and Jorah clears his throat.

“You’re not playing fair,” he rasps.

“I’m not forcing you to do anything.”

“And what sane man can stay strong when his ladywife is doing _that_?”

“Doing what?” she says, all faux innocence.

“You know exactly what,” he grouses. Daenerys knows him more intimately than anyone else in the whole world; she knows exactly how to make him succumb. The years have not dampened the fire they have for each other. He doubts they ever will. Their love has been built brick by brick over time, as holy as Baelor’s sept, the fire in its belly kindled, ready to flare at any moment, never close to dying.

She laughs now, abandoning all pretence. “I mean it, Jorah. Come back to bed. Or must I command it as your queen?”

“You’ll do whatever you feel like, I’m sure of it. Dragons do as they please.”

“I never hear you complaining,” she purrs. “In fact, you always voice ardent support…” She crooks a flirty eyebrow at him and he feels himself flush all over. By the gods, she is something else entirely. There will never be another woman to grace this earth like Daenerys Stormborn.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Your Grace?” comes the timid voice of a Gulltown servant. “I’ve come to wake you for breakfast.”

Daenerys huffs and pulls the sheets over her as the door opens. Jorah’s glad to be standing by the window, even though he isn’t in the most well-dressed state himself. The young woman’s eyes dart around the room, taking them all in, putting the pieces together.

“Sorry for disturbing, Your Grace,” she stammers. “But Lord Grafton said I should.”

“It’s fine,” says Daenerys, though she can’t mask her slight irritation. “Fetch my handmaiden for me, please. She can get me dressed.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she says, chancing a glance at him. “Milord?”

Jorah gives her a kind smile. “No, I can sort myself. Thank you.”

The young girl dips in a curtsey and flees. Daenerys scowls as the door closes behind her.

“See? Lord Grafton is determined not to have a repeat of the Eyrie,” Jorah chuckles, crossing the room to pick up his shirt. He shrugs it on and bends down to press a kiss to her pouting mouth. She melts under him, arms rising to wrap around his neck. Her fingers toy with the curls at the nape of his neck and he breaks the kiss to press his smile to her cheek. She’s a wily thing; she knows what that does to him.

“Stop that, Khaleesi,” he murmurs. “Your handmaiden will be here any minute and she doesn’t deserve to see anything licentious.”

“You’re very attractive,” she purrs. “She would probably enjoy it.”

“Now you’re teasing me,” he grumbles, nipping the shell of her ear as punishment.

“I’m not. Tyana hears all the gossip. Most of the ladies find you very comely indeed.”

“There must ge something wrong with all of them, then,” he grimaces.

“No, they have good taste. Trust me. You are _delectable_. But no one else can have you because you’re all mine.”

“Sworn by oath and the rest of it,” he agrees, nuzzling his nose into her neck. “Something I am most grateful for.”

“Unlike most men, who still find satisfaction in many other places besides their wives’ beds.”

“I’m not that kind of fool,” he says.

“Good. Dragons aren’t very good at sharing.”

“Neither are bears,” he teases, dipping to kiss her one more time. Before she can deepen it he slips out of her hold, moving to collect his things. “I’ll see you at breakfast, my queen.”

Unfortunately, he’s called away before breakfast is finished. His duties as lord commander come before his duties as Daenerys’ husband, and so he’s outside with the rest of the knights and squires long before any of her entourage appears, ensuring that everything is set up.

If he’s honest with himself, he’s glad for the distraction. Anything to keep his mind from what is to come.

It can’t be held at bay forever. Soon the crowds begin to traipse by, a storm of feet trampling the dusty ground. Excited chatter fills the air. Everyone is expecting a good day, and especially his darling girl. He doesn’t want to let her down. He has to try his best, no matter what. To do anything less would be to fail.

Daenerys breaks away from her entourage as she comes by. He meets her halfway as she picks her way through the crowd, reaching out to steady her.

“What are you doing?” he scolds.

She waves it away. “I can’t have my favourite man entering a tourney without a favour to wear, can I?”

He can’t help smirking as she presents him with a Targaryen banner, which she proceeds to tie around his bicep. Long gone are the days when he fought for her with her favour hidden from view. Now the whole world gets to see that he is his queen’s chosen one, now and always. It’s a beautiful fact.

“And it’s not the only favour you’ve garnered,” she continues, pulling out a second, a tiny stuffed bear small enough to fit in the pocket of his breeches without bringing too much discomfort in his armour.

“I see,” he says, trying to keep his tone nonchalant as he puts it away for safekeeping.

“I should have known never to trust a man,” Daenerys teases. “As soon as a prettier, younger girl comes along the old one gets tossed aside like a bowl of brown…”

“As if I would ever toss you aside. If one of us is to do the tossing, it’ll be you, when you grow tired of looking at my ugly old face.”

She laughs, teasing him by slipping out of his reach. “I think you’re getting fine with age, ser. Now, I wish you good fortune in the upcoming fight, and I’ll see you on the other side.”

“You will,” he murmurs, and watches her sashay away from him.

\-- --

It’s another bitter fight. They always are. Mud and shouts, dull pain when a blow strikes true, a mouthful of blood from an accidental sword to the face.

But then, quite suddenly, he is the last man standing for the second time in the past few years, a feat he would never have believed.

But it’s true. And it’s all down to the faith that people put in him.

The ceremonial crown is passed into his hands. Pretty, delicate flowers in the colours of summer, a coup for any woman. Jorah knows who this has to go to. How pretty it would look in honeyed hair.

He takes those steps forward, his eyes fixated on the pavilion where Daenerys stands. She claps harder than anyone, her face alight with pride and elation. There’s nothing better than that look, and his heart contracts in his chest with pride.

The world knows what to expect from him. He’s predictable in his love for his queen.

But it gasps as one as he drops to his knees not before his queen but the other girl who has captured his heart.

He presses the flower crown to her head and presses a kiss to her cheek.

And the crowd erupts in cheers as his beautiful little daughter clambers up into his arms.

Jorah pushes himself back into a standing position, keeping his hold firm on Daenora as she snuggles into his neck. His little princess, his whole world. That solemn little face breaks out into the sunniest smile he’s ever seen; when she smiles, she looks so much like her mother it takes his breath away. Daenerys always says she looks like him, but when she smiles? It’s all Daenerys. He presses a kiss to her cheek and she giggles and wriggles away from his gruff. Those pale blue eyes look down on him with unadulterated adoration.

“Papa won!” she sings. “Papa won!” Designed for a bigger head, the crown of flowers drops down into her eyes but she doesn’t care at all, pushing it back up with tiny hands so it balances where it should. She snuggles further into him, her hero. And Jorah has to admit: it’s a wonderful feeling. He doesn’t usually care what people think of him, but having the adoration of his family is unmatchable.

Daenerys moves towards him now too, smiling herself. She winds her slim arms around his waist and fits herself against his side, and he shifts Nora into one arm so he can slip his own arm around her and keep her close to his side. This. This is the only thing in the world that matters. His two girls, and the unborn babe growing in Daenerys’ belly. This _is_ his world.

His wife reaches up to kiss him, and he meets her halfway, trying to keep it relatively chaste as he’s mindful of his daughter in his arms. The crowd’s cheers grow louder as Daenerys scrabbles to hold on to his armour, the first strains of The Dragon and the Bear floating on the breeze, and he’s hit all over again by how well they’ve done—how well _Daenerys_ has done—in showing them all a better way forward.

 _This_ will be the greatest legacy Westeros has ever seen, of that he is sure.

\-- --

The feast that follows the day’s festivities is huge, sprawling right through the town as far as the eye can see, noblemen and common folk alike indulging in the celebrations. Nora loves the spectacle, staring round in wonder at the dancing and the mummer shows and the banners flapping in the wind. Her words are still mostly incoherent babbles, too young to yet form full sentences, but those light blue eyes sparkle with joy as she takes it all in. She’s a beauty, sitting there with her flower crown askew, and he still can’t believe that _he_ is half responsible for her, that he could have helped to make something so perfect.

That he’s helped to make another.

The festivities threaten to last until dawn, but when Nora begins to nod off over her fruit, Jorah sweeps her into his arms.

“Bed time,” he announces.

“No!” Nora protests, even as her eyelids flutter. “Me stay!”

“We’ll all go,” says Daenerys.

“I don’t mind taking her. You can stay longer if you’d like.”

“No, it’s been a long day. I’m rather tired too.” But the gleam in his wife’s eyes is not one of tiredness, and his heart begins to race.

“Well,” he says, a little unsteadily, “if that’s the case we might as well all retire…”

Daenerys stands with him, bending down to let Missandei know where they’re going. The Naathian’s cheeks are flushed with wine and she gives them an unguarded grin that lets Jorah know she sees right through her queen’s excuses.

Even so, it takes an age to return to the castle. There are always people who want to engage the queen or coo over the little princess, and it’s almost another half an hour before they reach the castle’s doors. By this time Nora is well and truly asleep, her head nestled in the crook of Jorah’s neck, her little lashes fluttering against his skin like feathers.

He’s careful not to jostle her as they at last make it to their quarters, but she awakens with groggy whine as they set about undressing her.

“Cwown mine!” she protests as Daenerys carefully disentangles it from her fine red-blond curls.

“Don’t worry, we’re not going to get rid of it,” she promises. “You’re the reigning queen of love and beauty, after all! Tomorrow we’ll press it so that it never dies and you will always have it. How does that sound?”

Nora nods. Jorah turns away, clearing his throat. It’s unfathomable that anyone could ever have seen Daenerys as anything less than she is. So kind, so intuitive, so ready to make her people happy. It’s just a flower crown. His daughter likely won’t remember this day when she’s grown. But Daenerys will do anything to make the people she loves smile, whether it is in her own best interest or not.

Daenerys sits the crown on the bedside cabinet so Nora will be able to see it if she wakes. Now that she’s settled again her eyelids droop once more; it won’t be long until she’s fast asleep and dreaming.

Daenerys presses a kiss to her head then steps back so Jorah can do the same. They move to the doorway to watch her together for a few minutes, then Jorah gently closes the door behind them as her breathing deepens.

Now they’re alone.

Jorah moves to light the candles as Daenerys crosses over to the dressing table, removing her crown. She begins untying her braids but sighs when Jorah sidles up behind her, his fingers moving to the ties on her dress, not as tight as they used to be.

“That feels nice,” she sighs as he dots kisses against her neck. He smiles against her, travelling up to suck the shell of her ear into his mouth.

“I suppose I ought to make it up to you,” he murmurs, “displacing you as my queen of love and beauty.”

“You _suppose_ you ought?” She turns in his embrace, wriggling out of her dress as it comes free. His breath catches as he’s faced with her nakedness.

She clears her throat and he realises he’s been staring, his ears burning hot. But he can’t help himself. She’s beauty Herself, ethereal and everlasting. He is but a humble worshipper. All pretence flees before her. He rings his arms around her waist and pulls her close, bending down to reach her ear.

“Gods, do you have any idea how much I love you?” he breathes.

“I think I have some idea,” she teases, pressing herself against him. He grits his teeth against the pleasurable sensation but doesn’t take the bait, thumbing her bottom lip.

“I mean it,” he says, lowering his voice, hoping she can understand the throaty urgency in his tone. “I love you with every beat of my heart, Daenerys. I will love you long after it stops. I don’t believe in any gods but I count my blessings every day to have you and Daenora and now this little one.”

Daenerys sighs. “I wish you _would_ stop counting your blessings, Jorah. You are not lucky to have us. You have us because you _deserve_ us, because you are so much greater than you realise.”

It’s hard for him to shake those old insecurities, even when so many years have passed. He settles for a compromise. “I’ll try.” And he will most likely fail, but that’s cast aside when Daenerys leans in to kiss him, capturing his bottom lip softly between both of hers. She backs them up until his knees come into contact with the edge of the bed and he folds down onto it. Her fingers go to the buttons on his doublet, and he draws her between his knees as she dips to kiss him once more.

Time is a fuzzy mess of limbs and tangled bedsheets and urgent caresses after that, measured only in hot whispers of _yes_ and _please_ and _there_ …

When it’s all over Jorah gathers her close and presses his lips to the centre of her forehead. She gives him a sleepy smile, violet eyes heavy with fatigue, and tucks her cheek against his chest.

He presses his hand to her belly, where their second child sleeps, and closes his own eyes, more content than he ever could have believed he’d be.


End file.
